


Thoughts Of A Dying Man

by lilian_ariana



Category: Berlin Station (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode: S03E08 The Green Dacha, F/M, POV Daniel Miller, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilian_ariana/pseuds/lilian_ariana
Summary: Things left undone, words left unsaid, hopes and dreams left unfulfilled, memories and regrets... the strange and jumbled assortment of thoughts running through a man's head as he lays dying.





	Thoughts Of A Dying Man

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this right after watching the season finale, though it probably would have benefitted from a re-watch and more reflection... but it wanted to be written.
> 
> Do NOT read if you haven't seen the episode in question, because massive spoilers.

_Didn't see that coming._

 

That's his first thought, flashing through his mind at precisely the same moment as the bullet leaves the chamber of Steven's gun, the gun pointed at him so casually it barely even registered as a threat through the haze of roiling emotion – grief, anger, despair, unquenchable thirst for vengeance – clouding his mind. And it's true: somehow, despite what he'd pieced together in his head, despite the fact that he _knew_ , beyond the shadow of a doubt, _knew_ with an almost religious conviction that this man he'd once, for a brief time, looked on as a kind of mentor, was a coldblooded killer, had killed his mother and who knows how many others... somehow, part of him still didn't see it coming. _How could I not see it coming?_

 

And then he's on the floor.

Groaning and struggling to breathe.

Is that the floor?

Everything's so hazy.

 

_It doesn't hurt,_ is the thought that follows. _Did briefly, but not anymore._

 

He's been shot before and it hurt like a bitch, but now he can barely feel it, barely feel the wooden floorboards under him, barely feel anything at all. He's dimly aware that the hot liquid soaking his clothes, another thing he barely feels, must be blood. A lot of it, too. _That's bad, right? That's gotta be bad._

 

_How could I be so stupid?_

 

Of all the times he didn't listen to Hector, "Don't get shot" is a piece of advice he really should have taken. _Coulda, woulda, shoulda._

 

Footsteps.

Steven?

Coming to finish the job?

No.

Squatting next to him.

"I'm so sorry."

_Liar._

"I am... I didn't want this."

_Liar. Murderer. Traitor. Liar._

Taking the gun he dropped as he collapsed.

_Should've shot him when I had the chance._

 

_Coulda, woulda, shoulda._

 

And he's walking away.

Out of the door and into the woods.

_Can't let him get away._

 

But he can't so much as twitch a finger, lying helpless in a still spreading pool of his own blood and a million thoughts cross his mind all at once, synapses firing as if they know it's their last chance, memory fragments chasing each other, flashing before him and...

 

_Oh. I'm dying._

 

It's a strange thought, seeming so unreal.

Will he see his mother again?

 

There she is, holding him, laughing, sunshine glinting in her hair, when he is... what? Four, five? Young. Happy. Happy as only a child can be, a child who hasn't yet seen death shatter his world.

 

And there's the memory that's been haunting him, the one from his nightmares, sleeping and waking, the one that's brought him to this spot. There she is, walking towards the car. There she is... and then she's not, and the world goes up in flames, and he stares, stares, stares at it, once, twice, and there's the figure in the shadows, the figure with Steven's face.

 

There's the same man, decades later, welcoming him to Berlin. Smiling, warmly, like he isn't the monster stalking his dreams.

 

_Enough. No more. Something, anything, else._

 

A succession of faces, smiling, frowning, laughing, crying, people that were important to him once but have long since drifted away.

 

His father, standing stone-faced and dry-eyed at his wife's grave, barely noticing the sobbing boy at his side.

 

_I'm sorry, dad. You had to bury her, far too soon, and now... now you'll bury me._

 

If his body is even recovered, that is.

 

He tries to remember the last time he spoke to his father, tries to remember what was said. He should've made more time for him. _Coulda, woulda, shoulda._

 

Should've made more time for family, period. More time for Patricia, the way he'd meant to when he came back to Berlin. More time for Max, the closest he'd ever had to a child of his own.

 

_I'd have liked to have children._

 

The thought comes unbidden and unexpected. It's nothing he's ever consciously considered, but now that it's crossed his mind he can't unthink it, can't help but feel the weight of its truth, and he can see them clear as day, a little girl with his mother's eyes and Esther's smile, fiercely protective of the little brother clutching her hand. Did Esther want children?

 

_Oh God, Esther._

 

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

 

A barrage of images floods his mind, his first glimpse of her in that striking red coat, word games, mind games, working against each other, working together, arguing, kissing. Oh, that first kiss. And the second, and the third, and that first time in her apartment, against the wall in a wild frenzy of passion. Falling asleep in her bed. Waking up beside her, again and again and again. Esther smiling, laughing. Her hand in his. Her lips on his. Losing himself in her beauty, her strength, her _everything_.

 

_I love you so much._

 

He'd never even told her. Why had he never told her?

He thought he'd have more time.

Waiting for the perfect moment, the moment that would never come because every moment with her was perfect, and he should've just told her. That she was the one. That he loved her, more than he ever thought he could love. _Coulda, woulda, shoulda._

 

At least she doesn't have to watch him die.

 

Another memory: Berlin. The warehouse. Clare, bleeding out in Hector's arms. The look of devastation on his face, and the cold darkness that replaced it.

 

And then there's another barrage, him and Hector, Hector and him, Chechnya, blood and snow, Berlin, blood and betrayal, Spain, Berlin, a funeral that isn't real, and finally, finally, here. Krik's men dragging him out of the cellar and in front of the building, shoving him to his knees and he looks up into Hector's face. Running. And now here they are, at the end of the road. Russia, blood and...

 

_Hector? Are you still there?_

 

Or is he already gone, ahead to where Daniel will soon follow?

No.

Not Hector, with more lives than a cat, somehow always managing to land on his feet. The consummate survivor.

No, he's still here. He has to be.

 

_I don't want to die alone._

 

The flood of memories has stopped now, and he feels his thought processes winding down. For a while – a second, a minute, an hour, there's no telling how much time has passed, he's already beyond the constraints of time – he felt cold, so, so cold, cold like lying in the snow in Chechnya, but even that has receded now. There's barely anything left.

 

Creaking.

Wood?

Something crashing.

Trapdoor?

Someone groaning, hissing in pain.

Hector?

Shuffling footsteps, a thunk as knees hit floor.

A presence by his side.

Is he imagining it?

 

"I've got you... I've got you."

Hector's voice, strained but caring.

A hand, warm on his face.

Déjà vu.

Real or memory? Hallucination? His mind giving him a last bit of comfort?

 

But just in case it's real...

_Finish it. FINISH it. Make him pay._

He shoves the thought at Hector, real or imagined, with everything he has left.

 

And then...

 

Time has run out. The clock is winding down.

 

And everything fades.

 

Fades... fades... fades...

 

Fades to black.

 

_See you on the other side._

 


End file.
